‘I’m satisfied,’ Mr. Donegan said, ‘but take the boots. I can’t have you going around naked.’
‘A bargain is a bargain,’ Pat insisted.
Mr. Donegan, noting the barefooted, coatless, ridiculously dogged cut of him, gave it up. He had found the measure of his man. His confidence was unprofessional, but complete.
‘All right,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders, ‘if it pleases you, it pleases me.’
Pat put the money in his pocket and made immediately for Chandlers Court. He could not bear to have them think her dishonest, a common tart who took whatever she could get. The night was warm, the side streets almost deserted, a sickle moon poised gracefully above them and touched the roof-tops with silver. He climbed the stairs without meeting anybody and tapped at the door. It took Fitz some time to recognise his caller.
‘Where were you all day?’ he asked.
‘I went to see Lily,’ Pat said. He was searching in his pockets. Fitz felt on his palm the tiny weight of the two sovereigns. He was moved, by loyalty, by generosity, by that superb quality in Pat’s love for others which made his personality something of a riddle.
‘You’re far too generous. And, besides, I told you there was no hurry.’
‘They’re safer with you than lying about in Lily’s place,’ Pat said. He was elaborately offhand.
‘You’re a real friend in need,’ Fitz said, touched.
‘For nothing,’ Pat said.
‘Aren’t you coming in for a minute?’
‘No—it’s a bit on the late side. How did things go?’
‘Larkin addressed the dockers. We think the port is completely closed—but we can’t be sure until tomorrow.’
‘I heard there was trouble.’
‘A bit. I got a clatter myself.’
‘So I see,’ Pat said, acknowledging the bandage. ‘Sorry I wasn’t there.’
Fitz wondered at this apparent lack of curiosity.
‘Come in and we’ll talk.’
‘No,’ Pat said, ‘I have to get along. See you sometime tomorrow.’ He turned to go, then turned back.
‘Just one little favour.’
‘Of course,’ Fitz said.
‘I didn’t like what Joe said today.’
‘Neither did I. I told him off.’
‘Would you let him know when you see him that Lily was all right.’
Fitz knew what he meant. He said he would.
‘And Mulhall?’
‘I’ll tell both of them.’
‘Thanks,’ Pat said. ‘She’s a straight girl—and I want them to know that. Good luck.’
‘Thanks,’ Fitz said. Pat waited until he had dosed the door. Then he went down the stairs and out again into the streets. He passed under a gas-lamp and into the shadows. A passerby stared after him, puzzled by his noiselessness, but the night hid his want and left him wondering.
On the following day the dockers continued their strike. Stevedores read out names to knots of men who listened in silence and then moved away, ships tied up and remained idle and untouched in calm water under a lazy sun. For over a week nothing moved along the port. There were policemen everywhere, or so it seemed, parading in groups and looking grim and businesslike, but finding very little to do. Even the mass meeting of dockers at which they had pledged themselves to remain out until the carters’ grievances had been dealt with remained orderly. Fitz heard Larkin again that night and wondered at the magnetism of the man as the crowd cheered and the flares of the torch-bearers tossed about the platform, painting shadows on hungry faces that peered under peaked caps. Most of them had empty pockets, bare rooms to return to, bread and tea to kill hunger with and no assurance of strike pay or any kind of relief. Yet they cheered when he said he could promise them nothing except hardship, and felt that somewhere at the end of the road there was a better world waiting. Like heaven, it was very far away, and like heaven it would be very hard to reach. Yet where before the only certainty had been obscurity and want, now at least there was that hint of hope. Hope for what, Fitz in the calm after the speechmaking, could not quite remember. He could only remember that it had been there, that it had infected him in company with thousands of others crushing and jostling and listening; perhaps it was a feeling of movement that remained, a journey beginning, a vague but certain purpose.
Whatever it was, it served Rashers well. People parted with pennies and halfpennies when he moved among the gatherings, singing in his cracked voice before the speakers mounted the platform. He had a fortnight of unusual prosperity. Then the Government, alarmed at a situation for which there was no precedent, intervened by calling a meeting of the interested parties at Dublin Castle and setting up a board of conciliation to examine and recommend new conditions for wages and hours of work. Mr. Sexton, seeing the moment ripe to reassert his authority, crossed over from Liverpool and decided to represent the union in his capacity as general secretary. On his advice the men agreed to return to work pending the outcome. Rashers found the ballad still good for a few pence on Saturday nights, until his clients learned that Sexton, not Larkin, would carry on the negotiations. The disappointment had its effect on Rashers’ income and the ballad, though useful, ceased to be the money-earner it had been.
Mr. Doggett, having met the general wage demand, was anxious to clean the slate of the other outstanding irritation. He informed the foundry that he would accept responsibility for the few shillings overtime pay that had caused the dispute. Nolan & Keyes did likewise. The whole transaction cost less than five pounds and the men concerned received three shillings each. Mulhall, meeting Fitz on the stairs, offered him a drink on the strength of it.
‘I want to talk to you,’ he said.
It was August. The trams were bringing back visitors from the Horse Show at Ballsbridge, the streets were beginning to breathe again after the drenching sun of the afternoon.
Mulhall paid and said immediately: ‘It’s about Sexton taking over the negotiations. Most of us feel Larkin should have been allowed to carry it on.’
Fitz felt the same way, but he knew there was little they could do.
‘Sexton is general secretary. He can overrule Larkin anytime he likes. At the same time I don’t see why he should come into it now.’
‘Because Larkin’s tactics don’t suit,’ Mulhall said, ‘they cost too much money. And it’s going to remain that way until we break away and form a union of our own.’
‘I’ve heard that being talked about,’ Fitz said.
‘With Larkin as general secretary,’ Mulhall added. He paused and drank. ‘What do you think about that?’
Fitz hesitated.
‘I agree that we should start on our own,’ he said carefully, ‘but not just yet. We’ll need money. After the knocking around we’ve taken during the past few months we need time to find our feet again.’
‘I know, but we can make a beginning. Will you do your bit on the organising end?’
‘In the foundry—yes.’
‘That’s enough for a start. Myself and a few others will be moving around the jobs generally. We may have to be ready quicker than you think—and I’ll tell you why. Larkin may be prosecuted by the union—for misappropriation of funds.’
It took Fitz some time to grasp his meaning.
‘What funds?’
‘The money he collected in Cork.’
‘But that was paid out.’
‘It was paid out to us in Dublin. Their case is that it was collected for the National Union of Dockers and should have been sent on to Liverpool first. It’s a legal wrangle, but they’ve written to the committee about it.’
‘What’s their reason?’
‘It’s clear enough to me,’ Mulhall said. ‘He’s called too many strikes without consulting them. They’ll move heaven and earth to stop him doing it.’